Let Me Know by Stina Lindenblatt Page B

says as we leave the classroom, “your story was constantly on the news. At one point they announced you had been found. I’d lost Trent but you were still alive. I cried so hard because I was happy. But the report was wrong. The cops didn’t have a clue where you were. You can’t believe everything you hear on the news. They screw things up like everyone else.”
    A couple of students pass us, laughing at a private joke. It’s easy to laugh when your private life isn’t splashed on television and newspapers. How the hell do celebrities survive all the gossip that hits the tabloids? I couldn’t do it.
    “I’m hoping that’s the last of it,” I say. “The reporter wasn’t even supposed to mention my name, because I was a minor when it happened and ’cause I was raped.” I practically whisper the last part.
    “So why did she?”
    I shrug. “Maybe she figured it didn’t count since the letters were supposed to be love letters. According to Paul’s sister, I wasn’t kidnapped. I was there with Paul willingly.” I cringe at the disgust on Emma’s face each time I mention Paul’s name.
    “Maybe,” she says, slowly sounding out the word.
    We hug and I head to the library. Marcus isn’t at a table in the library when I arrive. I continue to the back of the room. That way I won’t be noticeable. That way I can hide and make sure no one pays more attention to me than they should.
    A few people look my way as I pass, but no hint of recognition crosses their faces.
    I’m safe.
    * * *
    I stride through the crowded food court, dodging past tables as I search for my friends.
    A hand grabs my arm from behind me. “Hey, babe, what’s the rush?”
    My body stiffens at his touch. I turn to find a tall, bulky guy I don’t recognize leering at me. His hair is buzz-cut short and he has a large star tattoo on the side of his neck. I might not recognize him, but I do recognize the guy from this morning at the table next to us watching the exchange. Like this morning, he’s checking me over.
    I jerk my arm away and keep walking.
    The guy snatches my arm back. “Hey, I wanna talk to you. I hear you’re into the heavy stuff.”
    Frowning, I try to wrench my arm free. “What are you talking about?”
    His fingers curl into my arm to the point of causing me pain. I gasp, too stunned by his actions to do anything else.
    He lowers his voice to a seductive purr. “You know, as in sex. Whips. Bondage. The good stuff.” My stomach crashes to my feet and my body starts shaking. I want to run, but my fight-and-flight reaction has bailed on me.
    “Get your hand off her,” Marcus says, his tone as sharp as the blade of an ax. He rests his hand on my lower back, his message unmistakable.
    To anyone but this guy.
    Buzz Cut scowls. “What’s your problem?”
    Everyone at the surrounding tables watches us with growing interest. The food-court noise is nothing compared to the silence emanating from near us.
    “My
problem
is you’re touching my girlfriend.”
    Buzz Cut’s hand drops away from my arm. “Well, then you’re a lucky guy.” He winks at me and joins his friends.
    With his hand still protectively on my back, Marcus guides me over to Jordan and Chase.
    “You’re shaking,” he says as we take our seats across from them. “What did he say to you?” Unlike everyone else in the general area, Jordan and Chase are both deep in conversation, oblivious to what happened.
    “He knows.”
    “Knows what?”
    “He knows about the news report. He thinks I get off...” I shudder, the cruelty of the word choking me. “That I get off on being beaten during sex.”
    Marcus turns around in his seat and throws Buzz Cut a dark look. Not that the guy sees it. He and his friends are preoccupied with their current topic of interest—which hopefully doesn’t involve me.
    “What’s going on?” Chase asks.
    “People saw the news report last night about the letters to Paul,” I say.
    “Has anyone else said anything to you